Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

It's time for second chances. It's time to remake the world.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

I have an impulse to write all over the orange walls- I need an alphabet of endings ripped out of books, of hands pulled off of clocks, of cold stones, of shoes filled with nothing but wind.

You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.

I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.

At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.